Remember Opposite Day? Here's how it worked:
As a kid, you declared the day Opposite Day, and on that day
everything you spoke was the reverse of what it normally meant.
Yes meant no. Up was down. Right was wrong.

Opposite Day was perfect for torturing
your sibling.
"Do you like eating worms?" your little brother would
ask.
"Heck, yea!" you would respond.
Giggles followed.

The Jewish Sabbath has some things in common
with Opposite Day. A kind of reversal of the other six days
of the week, Sabbath is a 25-hour period where our 'normal'
lives are set aside. We do and say things on the Sabbath thatwhile
not exactly the opposite of our behavior during the other
six daysare something of a strong contrast.

We spend our time not on work, but
with dear friends and family. We think. We discuss. We pray.
We relax. Among the things we don't do: We don't drive on the
Sabbath, we don't answer the phone, we don't do anything that
impacts significantly on the natural world. In short, we change
our patterns and our relationship with the conveniences we've
mistakenly come to accept as necessary. We interrupt the impulses
we normally give in to without a second thought.

Yuck. Why would anyone do this?
What's the point? What's the benefit?

Well, try to imagine a couple of
things:

Imagine a life without contrast.
Day in, day out, it's all the same. Nothing changes. Events
are predictable, familiar, and convenient. A steady life without
contrast might be comfortable, but a lack of significant change
or difference in our lives can lead to stagnation. If everything's
always the same, how do we grow? How do we change? By deliberately
introducing a periodic break in our typical patterns of activity,
we put ourselves in a position to better challenge and change
our behaviors, our thoughts, and we gain better insight into
ourselves and our values. This effect can last like an echo
through the following week.

Imagine a life without rest.
That is, imagine slavery. It's easy to take our freedom
for granted, or to lose our sense of appreciation and gratitude
for what we have, such as our autonomy or our relationships
with others. The Egyptian taskmasters are long gone, but
Shabbat still gives us the chance to truly rest, to assert
and affirm our freedom from whatever might enslave us. We
become grateful for what we have because we're not distracted
by those things that matter less. By clearing away other
concerns and making space for quiet and contemplation, we
just hear better and see better. And with that clarity,
we can readjust our perspective on whats important.

Funny thing is, when understood and
practiced appropriately, Shabbat no longer feels like a bunch
of inconvenient restrictions. It begins to feel like the way
things are supposed to be. Its not like theres real
life for six days and then there's Shabbat, but more like the
reverse. Shabbat's the real thingsetting aside the time
for communing with nature, with your spouse, with your children,
with friends, with your thoughts and those of othersand
the other six days are just the necessary distractions we occupy
ourselves with in the meantime. The restrictions of Shabbat
give way to an understanding of what really matters: freedom,
rest from enslavement, the opportunity for growth and the expression
of gratitude for being alive.

Remember the feeling of being stuck
at home after a huge snowstorm? No shopping. No driving.
Just time to enjoy, think, and break from a normal pattern
of chore and habit. Instead of "can't do this"
and "have to do that," on Shabbat, like during
a wonderful storm, we "get to do" the things that,
when we really understand and appreciate life, we would
normally choose to do anyway. There's an ironic freedom
that results from the so-called restrictions. Its
quite the opposite of what people might think.